When I was a child and teenager, our parish priest was Father Joseph P. Finn. I have many memories of Father Finn, including the times he left his microphone switched on after Mass, amplifying his singing of the recessional hymn and his conversations with people outside the church.
There were his very detailed explanations during stories and homilies; the way he heard student confessions face-to-face in the school’s nursing room; how he called me “little mother” when my youngest brother was born during my Grade 8 year; the fact that he encouraged me to become a lector; his presence at youth group retreats; his leadership during the renovations on our heritage church building; and the many stories he shared about his much-loved mom.
I must say, the thing I remember most about Father Finn is the way he remembered people’s names. It didn’t take him long to memorize the names of entire families. Even though he nicknamed me, he always called me “Julie, the little mother.”
His “detailed” stories and homilies were such because he would specify people’s names and describe their appearances and personalities. Father Finn listened; he observed; he remembered; and, in doing so, he made everyone feel valued.
While my memory is not as flawless as Father Finn’s was, I too have an ability to remember details. Many family members and friends tease me for the seemingly useless tidbits I will recall as if they happened yesterday. I also tend to remember names and birthdays.
However, more than once, when I have seen acquaintances or people I have known in the past and called them by name, I have found myself confronted with blank stares. People have forgotten me and seem confused as to why I “know” them.
“We sat together while our daughters were at ballet class,” I explained to one woman, after I had called her by name and asked how her children were. It seemed to jog her memory a little (or perhaps she just played along), but enough incidences like that have made me hesitate to approach people I haven’t seen for a long time because I often assume that, even though I remember them, they will surely not remember me.
Last November, however, I had a wonderful experience where my memory came in handy. After speaking at a fundraising breakfast for St. Mark’s College, three people approached me. They had heard my voice and had the time to process our past connections, but I had no idea that they were there.
As one of the women looked at me, smiling, I made eye contact with her and her husband and immediately exclaimed, “You’re the parents of …!” I named two of my former students from the late ’90s, by first and last name. Both parents seemed thrilled that I remembered their kids so specifically and that I could even recall the years I had taught them. Next, a former colleague who I hadn’t seen in over 25 years greeted me. I likewise addressed her by first and last name, allowing the barriers of time and distance to fall away.
Even though I have been disappointed and embarrassed when others have forgotten me, these recent encounters remind me I cannot hold back when I know someone’s name or when I have a memory that includes them. We all find joy in being known, and my own disappointing experiences should not prevent me from allowing others to feel recognized and valued.
As mentioned in my previous column, I am listening to the “Rosary in a Year” podcast on Ascension. On Day 2, “The King Knows You,” Father Mark-Mary Ames shared how touched he was when Father Mike Schmitz referred to him by name. He was thrilled that Father Mike knew who he was, but he clarified that more importantly, Jesus knows all of us.
While it may feel lovely to have Father Finn, Father Mike, or anyone else remember our names, and it likewise feels sad when we are forgotten, the Father knows each of us. We are intimately known and loved by the one who created us and says, “I have called you by name; you are mine” (Is 43:1).
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